Tainted Pure
by applythepressure
Summary: "But I will always love you, even if it damns my soul to hell." Drabbles of Tate, Violet, and them together that will be updated as my muse strikes me.
1. Boom, Boom, Bang, Bang

A/N: These are mini drabbles of Tate, Violet, and the both of them together – each will be individually titled under the overarching title _**Tainted Pure**_. Some are canon and some are AU.

This first drabble is an AU with Tate and Violet both alive, in a relationship, and attending Westfield together.

I had my first graduate level class today and let me tell you, shit just got real.

_**Boom, Boom, Bang, Bang**_

The coke felt so good going up his nose.

He held it there until he could feel all the particles dissolve and he waited for the high to come. He knew that he was going to do this; he couldn't stand another second of walking around those hallways and watching those kids act so high and mighty because they get nose jobs and Chanel for Christmas while he only gets an extra slap in the face and if he's lucky, a sneak of some nice Grey Goose when the bitch isn't looking.

He had to take them away. He tells his therapist that he has these fantasies of killing these kids to take them to a clean and kind place where this is no pain, but that's bullshit. These kids piss him off, he has no use for them as they have no use for him, but unlike them who greedily clutch and cling to their toys, he believes in some good old spring cleaning. And they are toys to him, pawns that bore him, and it's time for something new.

He knew Violet was sick – she had a cold and he convinced her to stay home and rest when he visited her yesterday – so she was safe. She wasn't a toy, she was precious to him, the only person that ever evoked love and sacrifice from his black heart, and he wanted her nowhere near Westfield today.

He got his guns from under the bed, cleaning them as he could feel the effects of the cocaine in his system. He stuffed them into his backpack and closed his door, not at all sad that this was the last time he would see his room.

* * *

The brains of the first kid he shot were satisfyingly oozing into the dirty cracks of the tiles. His head had fallen in like a sinkhole, shards of skull intermingled with soft tissue; the contrast between the two was downright poetic.

He gunned down the secretary as she tried to flee, her heels flying through the air as she fell flat on her now dead face, the crunch of her nose resounding in his ears as it lost its battle with the hard floor. One red pump was haphazardly flung onto the statue of Westfield's mascot – the wolverine, which he thought was fitting for him right now, vicious, gnashing of teeth and ripping of flesh inherent in its nature – while the other was still stuck on her foot, the heel snapped and dangling like a dead tree branch or broken limb.

He could hear people evacuating the school, the stampede of feet as kids and teachers panicked and ran frantically away from him. He wasn't here to kill all of them, it would take too much time, and besides, some of them deserved to rot in this filthy hell than to be spared and taken somewhere clean by his gun.

He fired a warning shot through a window, eliciting a beautiful, discordant cacophony of screams.

He smirked.

Even though he was just a nobody to all these people before, all these people who didn't give a shit about him or anyone else but themselves, who bullied or ignored him before going back to slam down the Ecstasy tucked carefully in their Fendi purses or Gucci wallets, right now to them he was God.

And he wasn't in the mood to be merciful.

* * *

He killed everyone in the library. It was an eclectic mix, each one a trophy to his murder collection. The popular jock, the head cheerleader, the brainiac, the goth – all met the same fate. Death is the ultimate equalizer. He liked seeing all the different ways their heads would explode after he pulled the trigger.

He exited the library, walking down the now deserted hallway.

"Tate!"

He stiffened, a shiver racing up his spine, because he knew that voice.

It was her voice.

"Tate! Where are you?"

What was she doing here? She was supposed to stay home, far away from the physical manifestation of the horror that was his mind. She wasn't supposed to see this. She wouldn't love him after this!

No!

He would lose her and it would kill him, even though he was pretty positive that he was already all dead inside.

He heard her footsteps getting louder and then, her gasp as she rounded the corner and saw him in all his homicidal glory, gun hanging at his side as though it was always meant to be there.

"God, Tate!"

She ran to him, grabbing the gun and throwing it away from him. It clattered on the floor, skidding until it hit the row of lockers with a thump.

"Why, Tate? Why would you do this?"

He was dumbfounded at the sight of her, angry and confused, tears stubbornly clinging to the corners of her eyes as she tried to stay strong, because she was not supposed to be here. Why is she here?

"You aren't supposed to be here."

"But I am and you just murdered people in cold blood. I – " she took a step back from her, her eyes betraying her fear – "I feel like I don't even know you."

"I'm sorry, Violet. I'm…"

Sick? Cruel? Demented? What adjective could he use that would describe him?

"What, Tate? You killed people! Kids, like us! How could you?"

"Violet – "

"No, Tate. I don't want to hear it."

She yanked his arm and started pulling him down the corridor until they were just out of sight of the front doors. She turned to him, conflicting emotions running rampant on her face.

"I don't want to believe that you could do such a thing as this. I don't think I can ever forgive you."

His face fell, his heart crushed under the weight of a thousand sorrows, and he looked at her forlornly, hoping that she could still see how much he loved her, how much she means to him.

Suddenly her lips were on his and he was so surprised that he had hardly reciprocated when she pulled away.

"But I will always love you, even if it damns my soul to hell."

She then dragged him out of the front doors into the SWAT team's waiting arms. As he was brutally subdued to the cold cement of the entrance steps and before the black armored uniforms completely crowded his field of vision, signaling the end of the rest of his life to be spent behind bars, he looked up to see her walking away without a backwards glance.

* * *

A/N: What'd y'all think? I wasn't sure if I could pull off this scenario because I don't think Tate would have killed those kids if he had had Violet in his life, but I tried. Reviews make me happy.


	2. Whisper

A/N: So this is a quick one-shot under my collection _**Tainted Pure**_ where it is disjointed segments consisting of solely dialogue between Tate and Violet. It is canon. I dedicate it to missmaggiemaybe who has been a profoundly supportive fan and I cannot thank her enough for being so kind.

_**Whisper**_

"I know you're here."

"You always do."

"I always know when you're here because you're never not here."

"Can you blame me for wanting to be around you?"

"I guess I can't, but I can and do blame you for lots of things."

"I know."

"Do you care?"

"Of course."

"I doubt that."

* * *

"Can't you leave me alone for ten fucking minutes?"

"Sorry."

"You don't mean it. You never mean anything you say."

"How can you say that when you don't give me a chance to prove it? You've already convinced yourself that I cannot truly be sorry, but then why do I say anything at all?"

….

"Take your pathetic sorry and shove it up your ass."

* * *

"What are you looking at?"

"Your son."

"Why are you watching him?"

"I wanted to see if he would kill the new gardener your bitch of a mother hired. He is giving her the evil eye and she doesn't put her shears out of reach."

"What do you think?"

"I give it about three days, five max. He has poor impulse control just like you."

* * *

"Do you want to play cards?"

"Only if you stop following me around."

"Okay."

"I mean it, Tate."

* * *

"Did you hear the sirens last night?"

"Apparently he murdered the gardener just like I said. He didn't even last forty eight hours."

"You don't sound surprised."

"Should I be? He is your son."

* * *

"Double word score. Suck on that, Lord Byron!"

"Crap."

"It's not fun getting beat at your own game, now is it?"

"If I'm going to get beat, I'd rather it be by you."

"I'd rather you not have a game to play at all."

* * *

"Goddamnit, Tate, ever hear of knocking?"

"Well, I wasn't expecting you to be doing that!"

"Shut up, the only reason you came in is because you knew I was trying to get off and your perverted self wanted to watch and try to play."

"No–"

"I'm not sure which way I want to torture you. I could send you away and make you miss the show. Or I could make you stay, but not touch."

"Vi –"

"Or I could call Travis and make you watch us."

"NO!"

….

"I've made my decision. Get the fuck out."

* * *

"Vi, I'm –"

"No, don't say it."

"But –"

"Don't. I don't think I could bear it if you say those two fucking words one more time. I've heard them enough to last an eternity."

….

* * *

"What are you reading?"

"_Anna Karenina_."

"Why?"

"Are you seriously asking that question? You know perfectly well why."

"You're right. I do."

"So why did you ask in the first place?"

"Because I was hoping that you would say we're different from Anna and Vronsky, that we will not have their tragic ending."

"Did I miss something? We already did."

"Maybe we could start again."

….

"Maybe."

* * *

A/N: Short and sweet. Reviews make me happy!


	3. You Found Me

A/N: Another canon drabble containing Violet's thoughts.

_**You Found Me**_

She never asked for this.

She only wanted to get through the hellhole called high school so she could run off to college, maybe date a frat boy or physics nerd, get her degree, and happily slave away at an alternative coffee shop where she could meet people who knew the obscure bands on her T-shirts and who actually wanted to talk about politics, love, the big questions, instead of Gucci, the latest celebrity divorce, and who was having a sordid affair with their boss.

Instead she got tangled up with a dead boy whose eyes were as dark as his soul, whose blond curls were as angelic as the rest of him was lethal.

Instead she killed herself when she found out that he, a psychopath supposedly incapable of loving, loved her. Didn't she win the fucking jackpot? She still could picture that innocent chalk on a board mocking her as she swallowed those pills, one, three, fifteen, down, down, down into her protesting stomach, which she could feel fighting off the death sentence she had resigned herself to.

Instead she gave him her virginity even though she knew he was a killer, and it was still so hot, so forbidden, so beautiful as he whispered in her ear how much he loved her, that he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her, that even now, knowing what she knows, she almost doesn't regret it.

Instead she got her heart torn out when she sent him away for raping her mother, gets it repeatedly scratched and bitten every time she sees a glimpse of him, catches his unique scent in the air, hears an all too familiar chord or singer's voice coming from her room.

Instead of a full, happy life, she gets a frozen, dead wasteland, only a small, insignificant tombstone in the massive graveyard known as Murder House.

She never asked for any of this.

But life has a way of giving you what you need, not what you want. Life has a way of helping you find what you need.

Did she need Tate?

She thought she did, at the beginning. As they secretly hung out after his sessions more and more, she started to like everything about him – like his smile when she put on an old Nirvana album or his eyes when she told him her carefully guarded secrets, and she wanted to see that smile and those eyes more and more – and before she knew it, she felt as though she couldn't live without him and she didn't remember how he went from stranger to love of her life so fast, like a car going zero to one hundred fifty in the blink of an eye.

Now, after all that happened, she is not so sure what she needs anymore.

Maybe time.

Maybe space.

Maybe razors.

Maybe pills.

But maybe she needs him, needs the thing that caused the wound to heal it, use his love – because he will always love her, that she knows for a fact – to cauterize her scars, fight fire with fire.

He found her. She found him.

Maybe that's all she needs.

* * *

A/N: Short but sweet. Reviews make this cripple happy!


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